Close Call
by moirariordan
Summary: "I need to see my son," she said. (hook/emma, sirens)


this idea comes from a post by geekalogian on tumblr, i've no idea how to link it here, but the credit is theirs.

* * *

It takes considerable effort to convince David to let her leave, not that Emma blames him. He looks even more freaked out than she feels, which is a feat in and of itself, considering that her hands haven't stopped shaking since they hit the diner.

("Are you _sure_," he said, clutching her wrist a little too tight, a look on his face that made Emma's gut twist, too much, too much, "you can stay, we'll—we could talk, or—"

"I need to see my son," she replied, quiet and sure, hearing the frayed edges in her own voice.

He let her go without another word, after that.)

Killian is sure to have Henry at the inn—he wouldn't take him out on the skipper tonight, not with Zelena on the move so often lately—and Emma's sure that she must wake half the neighborhood with her frantic urgency, slamming doors and pounding the side of her fist against the door in frustration as she fumbles with the lock.

"Hold, now—_Swan_," Hook says, when she bursts inside. She spares him a split second glance—hand at his scabbard, wide, alarmed eyes—as she rushes past to her destination, a thundering pulse of a thought in her brain, _Henry, Henry, please, Henry._

He's asleep, thank God. She sinks down beside his bed and looks at his face, the ruddy little blush in his cheeks, his fluttering fingers against the pillowcase, the way he twitches his mouth in his sleep, he's done that his whole life, God, when he was a baby the girls at the shelter used to say he was smiling but Emma knew—

(fuck, no, never mind, God, Emma thinks, God.)

It takes her a long time to calm down, biting at the collar of her jacket and trying not to reach out, grab at his hands or shake him just to wake him up, so she could stroke his hair and listen to his voice as he rolled his eyes and asked, j_eez Mom what's your deal?_ That's what he'd say, probably. Nothing he would've said before, as Regina's son, but Emma's—Emma's Henry has a bite. She'd given him that much, at least.

Henry snuffles a little when she finally stands, once her breath is steady and she feels like she can, like she won't fly apart. He murmurs something under his breath and Emma even smiles, a little. Hopefully he's having good dreams. (Fake ones or not, Emma will take it.)

Killian's waiting outside patiently when she emerges from the bedroom. She'd thought it would be harder to come out and see him, but it isn't. Now that she's here she's actually not sure—like. Why she thought that.

"Better?" he asks, from his spot by the door, reclining with deceptive ease against the wall. She nods. "Gave me quite the fright, love—what the hell happened?"

Emma takes a deep breath and closes Henry's door. "Close call."

"Hell of a close call, to shake you up like that."

Emma's throat closes up a little, and she crosses her arms to try and hide it. The way he blinks, though, lifts his chin a little, means he probably catches it. Motherfucker catches everything. "Yeah."

He studies her for a moment, then pushes off the wall, demeanor shifting like quicksilver. Like a page turning—sometimes Emma dreams about him as a film reel, every frame catching him in a different place, different personality. "I don't suppose you'd like to talk about it…?" He stops a few feet away and turns on his heel, waving his hook at her dismissively. "Ah. No, of course you don't."

"I didn't—actually say anything," Emma protests, torn between being offended or just laughing at the futility of trying to argue against his observation. "Maybe I do want to talk about it."

"_Do _you?"

"Well—"

He comes to a stop by the kitchenette, turning to throw her a look that's pure pirate over his shoulder. "Yes, darling?"

"Shut up," Emma grumbles, and he laughs, turning back around and messing about with the tumblers she'd left out in the dish rack, remnants from Henry's breakfast. "What are you doing?"

"Making my lady a drink, of course," Killian says smoothly, turning around to present a glass, half full of his signature drink.

"Rum never hurts, huh," Emma says dryly, but takes it anyway. Her nerves are still rattling; she's not even going to try and pretend, here.

"Just to wet your tongue," he advises sagely, "calm you down a bit."

"I'm calm," Emma says, just to be contrary.

"Hmm." He leaves his flask on the counter—conspicuously, to make a point, she's sure—as he takes a place at the table. "As you say."

This shit is more like moonshine than rum, really—but it's good, it's comforting, in all the ways quality liquor could and should be. Moonshine from a magical flask, after all, is miles better than the best of the best here in the real world. Emma always thinks, _no wonder it keeps him warm at night._

_(It's cold out here sweetling, let me just—there now, isn't that—)_

Emma takes a breath, shoves the memory away as she swallows. Fuck this entire day, seriously.

"Swan," Killian says, "honestly, I mean no offense, but you look like you've seen a bloody ghost. I feel I would be remiss if I didn't at least insist that you sit down."

"I'm not sure that—if I sat down, I'd probably pass out or something," Emma says honestly. "Don't worry, though. I still think you're a gentleman."

"Small mercies," Killian says, sounding amused. He's still watching her with that close, concerned attention, though, that betrays his worry. It's so similar to the—he, it, the other one—whatever. Emma shifts in discomfort. "Are you sure—"

"Isolated incident," Emma blurts, striding to the sink to set down her glass. To get her back to him. Both. "It wasn't—it was nothing."

Emma closes her eyes as she waits for his response—she's not sure if she wants him to call her on the lie or not, is the thing, like, he could. He could walk up right behind her and say, _doesn't look like nothing,_ and touch her shoulder, maybe, or her arm, and if he did that then Emma would probably lean back and give him more, she wouldn't even think. She'd let him touch her forever, maybe, she'd let him do all kinds of things, if he tried, if he stepped in too close and just took.

(That's the thing, that's the thing—she wouldn't say no, she could never say no, so she tries to make it so she doesn't have to. She thinks Killian knows that. She thinks that's why he never asks.)

(She thinks, that's how I should've known it wasn't really him.)

"Would you like me to—" he pauses, and she doesn't turn around. "It's late. You should rest."

"Yeah." She counts to three before she turns, steadying herself before she has to look at him, his face and his eyes and his mouth. She's got a bite mark on her shoulder, right beneath the spot where her shirt collar sits. What would he do if he saw it, what would he—

"I'll come by in the morning," he says steadily, pushing forward with confidence. "There are many gaps in my culinary experience, according to your boy. He was quite insistent; made a list and everything. We're to have breakfast tomorrow."

Emma snorts. "Lemme guess—crepes?"

"Aye, his favorite, as I understand."

"They're like thin pancakes," Emma starts, stopping at Killian's snort.

"I know what a bloody crepe is, Swan," he says, "_Nutella_, though, I've no idea." Hook makes a face, pronouncing it a little strangely, the same way he says all words he's unfamiliar with and vaguely disapproves of—television. Cell phone. Magic. Johnny Depp.

Emma really does laugh then, surprising herself with it. "Ah."

"Yes, well." He stands, managing to make it look sort of dashing somehow. How, Emma has no idea, but he makes pretty much everything look sort of dashing. Even, like, getting beat up. It's ridiculous, really. "Until the morrow, then."

"'Morrow,'" Emma repeats, bemused, shaking her head. He shoots her an guileless smile, and somehow, she smiles back.

She half expects him to push a little more, to say one of those piercing things he's so good at, but all he does is double check the window locks for her, and an odd little bow as he wishes her goodnight.

"Thanks," she tells him, and his eyes twinkle a little as he smiles at her.

(The other one hadn't smiled at all, just smirked, a con man smirk, Emma should've known, should've known. _Come away with me, tonight, we'll take Henry and leave this wretched place, we'll sail away and make something new, just the three of us—that's what you want, isn't it Emma? You've thought about it, haven't you?_)

She hasn't, she tells herself, as she brushes her teeth and tries not to remember how it felt to kill something that wore Killian's face. It died cleanly, at least. There wasn't even any blood.

If she thought about that, that would mean she thought about waking up in a bed that you could feel the sea in, hacking all her hair off and tying the remnants back out of her face so it doesn't get in the way. Henry in leather boots and a waterside tan, Killian would teach him how to swordfight, probably. Better him than Emma, she's got terrible form and bad habits—

God.

("Just an illusion," David said, holding her tight as she gasped for air, "look, look at him Emma, it's not him anymore, see, it wasn't real, honey, it wasn't—")

Seriously, _fuck _this day, Emma thinks.


End file.
